Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  I look around Mrs Bird’s funeral and wonder who would come to mine if I fell under a bus tomorrow. What’s nice about this funeral is how I feel embraced by Drew’s family and even the care staff. That’s a gift from the departed to me, a chance comer at her farewell. I think, from what I’ve heard, she’d have liked that.

  Not fare well,

  But fare forward, voyagers.

  Drew looks at me and raises a brow. I smile reassuringly, only now aware that I’ve been muttering. Crumbs, I must look mad to most people. I’m not sure if I’m saying it to the dead people I’ve been thinking about or to myself. I now have a bigger focus than my own problems. I do want to do something for the girls I feel I’ve come to know.

  Chapter 18

  Emma, 14th October 2010

  This week has been almost a complete disaster, if it wasn’t for a final sweet conclusion this afternoon. Michael is on sabbatical so we took Katy away to Center Parcs in Norfolk to give Biff a break from childcare responsibilities. I’m a bit worried about Biff, to be honest: she’s getting completely wrapped up in Katy and her life and is forgetting to make one for herself. I’m hoping this time apart will prompt Biff to get out a little, look for a man, for Christ’s sake. She’s been living like a hermit. Worry for Biff is no excuse, though. I don’t know what possessed me to make the booking. Michael at a Center Parcs? That is akin to inviting a nun to an orgy and as predictably as bad an idea. He just didn’t get the hedonistic pleasures to be had and looked faintly horrified by the antics of the families having loud fun in the pool and bowling alley.

  ‘It’s all so artificial,’ he would bewail every now and then. ‘If you want waves, go to a beach.’

  I had to bite my tongue not to explain about parental fears of rip tides and pollution. He thinks tidy packages of anything made by someone else are suspect – and that’s what Center Parcs is on a grand scale. He turns his nose up at those lists of best books of the year or prizewinners – he has to judge for himself. This man is never going to listen to a playlist anyone else has created on YouTube. Come to think of it, I doubt he’d consume his music that way in any case. It will be a CD, bought from a specialist retailer, played on a high-quality sound system where the digital information hasn’t gone through too much compression (I’ve had the lecture).

  To be honest, though, it’s my fault. I’m the one dragging him to a place that would be to him yet another of the circles of Dante’s hell in a modern version. What did I expect? It’s quite funny really.

  After two days of existing in a mild state of horror, he relaxed a little when I booked Katy into a nursery this afternoon and we went to the spa. I had a hot stones massage to help with lower-back pain. He went in the sauna and child-free pool. When I came out I found him chatting to an obviously lovely young blonde in a high-cut swimming costume. She reclined next to him like a model posing for a statue of Venus. He was sitting up. I had my suspicions why. I have to admit my stomach is no longer as flat at this end of my twenties as it was at hers, so I couldn’t help feel that claw of jealousy. I did the inevitable. Came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his neck.

  ‘Hi, darling, sorry to keep you waiting.’

  He introduced me to Jasmina. We gave each other toothy grins: blonde beauty faces off against brunette wife.

  ‘Sorry to pull you away but we’d better hurry along to get the baby,’ I dropped in oh-so-casually so she would infer that we are a close-knit family unit, no poaching.

  Michael didn’t spoil it by telling me to go ahead to collect the sprog while he stayed to chat to his new friend – a point to him. As we walked back to the childcare centre, I couldn’t help a little grumble.

  ‘You looked like you’d got very friendly with Jasmina in a short time.’

  ‘What can I say? She started chatting to me first.’ He grinned, knowing exactly what was going through my head. ‘Nice girl. Graduated with a first in English literature from Oxford but struggling to get a job. I was giving her some pointers.’

  ‘As long as that was all you were giving her.’

  He took my hand and swung it in an easy gesture. ‘Oh-ho! Is this jealousy I hear?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘So I can’t talk to other women now?’

  ‘Not glamorous ones with tits like watermelons, no.’

  ‘I didn’t notice. And if I had, I’d say they were more like cantaloupes.’

  ‘Michael!’

  ‘Well, forgive me for being a man, darling. She was rather spectacularly endowed.’

  ‘Probably purchased them from a plastic surgeon.’

  ‘Money well spent then.’

  ‘This is not making me feel better.’

  He knew I’d had enough teasing. ‘Would telling you that I found her beauty unsubtle compared to yours? That while I may admire other women in an impersonal way, I have no desire to touch anyone but you? That yours is the only body I want to see beside me in bed? You are my wife – you wear my ring – that says it all.’

  I checked my watch. ‘You know, we actually have an hour before we have to fetch Katy.’

  He picked up the pace. ‘Now you’re talking. How far to the cabin?’

  ‘I know a shortcut.’

  It’s not only children who get to play here.

  Chapter 19

  To: JBridges@expeditedmail.co.uk

  August 10

  From: chaslam@wellmindassociates.org

  Subject: Your treatment plan

  Dear Jessica,

  As you may be aware, Michael has been in touch concerning recent events and his worries that we have not got your treatment plan right. I think it would be beneficial if we brought your next appointment forward so we can discuss this as a matter of urgency. I’d like to hear directly from you how you feel you are doing and whether you are in need of another rest cure at Willowbank. Please phone my PA and she’ll book you into the first available slot.

  One further word – I know it will be tempting not to face up to acknowledging any deterioration in your mental health but I really do think it would be better to get you back here as soon as possible so that any slippage can be caught before it develops any further.

  Best wishes

  Charles

  To: chaslam@wellmindassociates.org

  August 10

  From: JBridges@expeditedmail.co.uk

  Subject: re: Your treatment plan

  Hi Charles,

  I’m fine. Consider this email me discharging myself from your care, so you are no longer my therapist. Thanks for your advice to date but, from here on, I’ll seek help if I need it from people unconnected with Michael. That’s best for all of us.

  I hope you enjoyed your daughter’s wedding.

  Bye.

  Jessica

  P.S. It’s Michael who needs treatment for anger management. Ask him why I say that and see if he denies it.

  Chapter 20

  Jessica, 11th August

  Rita is still working at the office. I watch as she lets herself in at eight to do her quick spit-and-polish of the new business at 5a. No one else is with her so I decide to confront her inside. A firm shove on the door and I’m in. The hallway has a different smell – something slightly floral and musky like potpourri. I knock on the office door.

  ‘Yes? Oh, it’s you.’ Rita frowns at me. A woman of my own height, she manages somehow to look down at me along the slim line of her nose. Her limp brown hair is kept back by combs. ‘Didn’t expect to see you back here.’

  ‘Hi, Rita. I was wondering if I could come in for a moment?’

  ‘There’s nothing for you here. I bagged up all your old rubbish and threw it out last week – Mr Khan’s orders.’ She stands there, a formidable guard in her navy jumper and jeans, maroon tabard apron to protect her clothes.

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m not after anything. I just want to ask you a question. This all came as a bit of a shock to me, as I was on holiday.’

  She sniffs. ‘Yes, I suppose it did. And these n
ew people, they don’t complain about me, not like you.’

  ‘And I’m sure it’s much easier to keep clean now the landlord has done a proper job on decorating. You were fighting a losing battle before, I see that now.’

  My concession gets me inside. She picks up the kitchen spray from where she left it and carries on scouring the pristine sink. It looks like the new tenants do the cleaning each day and barely need her services.

  ‘I hardly recognise the place,’ I admit.

  ‘Neither do I. Wouldn’t mind a massage. My back plays me up something terrible in the hot weather.’

  ‘Um, Rita, I’ve been left in something of a pickle.’ Did I really just say ‘pickle’? ‘You see, Mr Wrath hasn’t paid me.’

  ‘He didn’t pay his rent neither.’ She wipes the table holding the twig and stones, dislodging several pebbles. With something close to satisfaction, I imagine all the good vibes running screaming from the room. She straightens, knuckles on hips, cloth dangling. ‘Wait a moment, didn’t I hear something about Mr Khan wanting to talk to you about the money?’

  I see no point in denying it. ‘Yes, but I’ve also found out that Mr Wrath forged my signature. I’m afraid it turns out that Jacob was a complete crook.’

  ‘Was he?’ This interests her. ‘He was always so pleasant to me.’ ‘Not like you’ is the unspoken conclusion to that sentence.

  ‘But you remember how it was, don’t you? I wasn’t his equal, not a partner. How could I be responsible for the rent when I worked part-time and he barely paid me?’

  She nods at the justice of this, moving on to clean the windows. I’ve never seen her be so conscientious before. Maybe my attitude towards her was the problem, not her skills?

  ‘So I really need to find Mr Wrath, but he doesn’t seem to exist, at least not under that name. I was wondering if you knew any more than I do?’

  She finishes the pane then puts her cleaning gear back in the bucket she carries on her rounds.

  ‘I’m not nosy,’ she begins, and my hopes rise.

  ‘No, no one would ever think that.’

  ‘But I did think him an odd sort of person, always keeping his desk clear and leaving you doing most of the work. A queer duck, I told Mr Tudor – that’s Mr Khan’s man who manages things round here. I had a little look once in Mr Wrath’s bag – you remember the satchel thing he carried around with him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He left it sitting on the desk once when he went to the…’ she jerks her head towards the toilet. ‘I took a quick peek.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It struck me as peculiar that he was carrying someone else’s post – a bank statement – same bank as me – but it was sealed.’

  ‘Whose post?’

  ‘Mr J. M. West.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you got the address as well?’

  ‘I wasn’t snooping.’

  ‘I never said you were.’ I’m enjoying this conversation; I hadn’t expected it from Rita, of all people, but it’s like we’re dance partners, both knowing exactly what the other means but able to do the moves around each other so nothing looks ugly.

  ‘It was John Ruskin Street near Kennington Common – I remember it because my sister lives round there; we walk down that road to go to the park with her kids. Not that I’ve seen him there, though.’

  ‘Did you get the number?’

  She shrugs. ‘16 or 36 – something with a six in it.’

  ‘Thanks, Rita. And I’m glad to see you’ve still got your job.’

  ‘Mr Tudor, he’s not a bad man. I’ll tell him I saw you.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiles, scoring a final victory for her in our three-month tussle.

  Back on the street, I contemplate my choices. Drew would say to wait for him but he’s busy all day and I don’t want to put this off. I decide to head directly over to John Ruskin Street and at least find out the right number.

  After consulting an A to Z in a newsagent’s – easier than trying to squint at my phone screen – I catch a bus to the Oval cricket ground. As I watch the familiar streets of the West End pass, my mobile rings. My mum.

  ‘Hi, sweetie. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, er, good, I think.’

  ‘Only “I think”?’

  ‘I broke up with Michael.’

  There’s a pause. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. He didn’t make you happy, did he?’

  Mum might be dandelion fragile but she also has the knack for nailing a situation. ‘You’re right. He wasn’t good for me.’

  ‘So where are you living now?’

  ‘Drew’s?’

  ‘That nice young man from Feltham?’ Drew had predictably charmed my mother when he met her on one of her rare forays to London.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You stick with him, dear, until you’re on your own two feet. How’s the job going? Can I meet Mr Wrath when I’m next in town? I can call in when I go to the matinee, say hello and then take you to lunch.’

  ‘You’re coming up to town?’

  ‘Silly, have you forgotten? My ladies’ group has tickets for The Bodyguard.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘Mum, look, things are a bit complicated – on the job front.’

  I can hear the stress in her voice. ‘But you said you were enjoying it – that it was your path back.’

  ‘I know, but I’m in a slippery patch right now. My boss has money troubles. He’s had to let me go.’

  ‘Oh, darling, what are you going to live on? First no Michael, and now no job.’ I can almost hear the gears in her mind shifting. ‘You’ll have to come and live with me. Miriam won’t mind – really, she won’t, not after I explain to her.’

  Miriam would hit the roof: a grown-up half-sister sponging off her! Not while I have any respect for myself left. ‘I’m fine, really, Mum. I’ll get something else.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mum’s panic is subsiding.

  ‘Yes. Drew’s been great.’ She always responds better when a man’s name is mentioned – she comes from that generation. Even though her second husband was a complete shit, she still has faith. ‘He’s a really kind person and he’s not going to throw me out.’ Not like Michael did. ‘Let’s do that lunch next week.’

  ‘Wednesday, at noon. My treat.’

  It really is going to have to be, as I am more or less penniless. ‘Thanks. I’ll meet you near the theatre – we’ll go somewhere close.’

  ‘Bye, darling. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too. Take care.’

  The call has distracted me and I almost miss my stop. I’m saved by an elderly lady taking her time with her shopping trolley giving me a chance to reach the doors. I help her lift it down to the pavement, then strike out in the direction of John Ruskin Street. Funny man, Ruskin, a wonderful artist and writer but now mostly remembered for being squeamish about his wife’s pubic hair. The relationship was never consummated and she went off to be someone else’s artist’s model. Millais, if I remember. Ruskin was definitely a man born in the wrong century. It’s a mistake, though, to imagine that he’d be happier now or that he was a repressed homosexual. I just think he didn’t like the physical side of human life. All kinds of sex are messy, so maybe he really just wanted to be celibate, and not get involved in all those body fluids? He’d have been better off being born at a time when being a monk was a career option.

  I’ll have to work out soon what my own future looks like as I’m not a Ruskin. I need someone but sex also has the potential to destroy a relationship. It can’t be the only tie because that soon works loose. If I really love Drew…

  This isn’t the moment. I wander the suburban street looking for clues at the houses ‘with a six in it’. It’s a nice street with a mixture of flats and Victorian semis and a pleasing number of trees shading the parked cars, but it’s also very long. I know from my experience of living in London that it is a rare area where people kno
w their neighbours by sight, let alone by name. I could try the electoral roll but my instinct here is that Jacob would’ve kept his name off the public one, if he bothered to register at all. Nothing else for it: I knock on the door of 16.

  By the time I reach 46, I’m losing hope. I’ve only had one door answered. Most of the houses are multiple occupancy so I’m leaving behind plenty of possibles. No reply. I try 48 and after a wait an elderly man using a walker answers. He’s bent over by arthritis so has to look up at me through bushy eyebrows to meet my gaze.

  ‘Oh, I thought you were meals on wheels.’ He gives me a questioning look but has been raised not to slam the door in the face of a lady.

  ‘Sorry, no, sir, but that does sound a lovely concept. I wish I were. I’m looking for someone who lives in this street but, stupidly, I’ve forgotten the number.’ I try my best disarming smile.

  ‘Who’s that, dear?’

  ‘A Mr West. He might live next door at number 46.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s a Spanish family. Nice people.’

  ‘Right. Well, thanks for helping me cross them off my list.’ I start to go.

  ‘There’s a Mr West at 49. Been there about a year. Not very friendly but we say hello when we meet.’

  ‘Dark hair, slightly receding? About thirty-five?’